


Of Fire and Blood: the Lives and Deaths of Setrass Many-Horns

by Baeowulf



Category: Elder Scrolls, Elder Scrolls Online
Genre: Altmer - Freeform, Argonian OC - Freeform, Argonians, Asphyxiation, Bondage, F/M, Knifeplay, The Lusty Argonian Maid, altmer OC - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-01-03
Updated: 2019-01-03
Packaged: 2019-10-03 14:12:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,019
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17285579
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Baeowulf/pseuds/Baeowulf
Summary: One couldn't have come from humbler beginnings, nor arguably risen to greater heights, than did the Mercenary Queen Setrass Many-Horns of the Blood-and-Fire Band. She occupies a unique position in history: both reviled and revered, feared and loved, hated and worshipped, often in simultaneity. Her story - or rather stories - are an excercise in contradictions; accounts of her rise to power, military, social, and political actions within all factions during the War, and her ultimate fate are too numerous to either count or reconcile. She is a figure as shrouded in myth and folklore as distant Atmora, the crumblng age of the Xanmeer, or the Adic stories the Aldmeri keep locked away in dusty tomes and venerable libraries, and yet while the qualities of uncertainty kept in these stories result from the erosion of time, distance, and the aedic warp of Nirn's distant past, the erosion of hers result purely from number and popularity, spread from tavern to tavern in hushed tones and bawdy songs, always by someone who knew someone who knew the Bandit Queen herself. This account is a story; half history, half erotica, and half legend. It is the story of a woman I have called friend.





	Of Fire and Blood: the Lives and Deaths of Setrass Many-Horns

_“I should be grateful.”_

This thought had crossed Setrass’ mind time and time again, an irritating burr she couldn’t seem to get unstuck from the base of her skull. “I should be grateful” - there were worse places she could be than a mercenary camp, worse jobs she could do than maid-work and kit maintenance, worse clothes she could wear than the simple dress of lavender fabric that clung loosely to her body.

_“I should be grateful”._

The words rang hollow, even now. Of course she should be grateful, but for what? That she wasn’t a Dres slave anymore, destined for an early death before her fortieth year to exhaustion, beating, or something worse? That now, she only had to serve a company of soldiers, tidy after their mess, and tolerate their drunken forays in the recreation of bawdy literature? For the fact that at the end of the day, she always had a full stomach, a soft bedroll, and only very rarely a blackened eye?

Of course she was grateful for that - she was a slave, not an idiot. And yet… the words rang hollow even still. Setrass was an Argonian - tall and strong from a life of hard work on a House Dres farm, with dusky purple-black scales and a crown of horns grown rampant from being broken too many times as a child, and orange eyes that burned with an intensity unsuited for her station when she thought nobody was looking, or whenever she couldn’t bite back what pride she had left. She would not be called beautiful were she to walk the streets of Alinor, or Vivec, or Windhelm - too tall, limbs too long, muscle too visible and shoulders too sharp for breasts as full as hers were - or at least that’s what Vanora Once-Dres had said, not to mention the scar that split the left side of her face. And yet none would call her ugly anywhere, either; her limbs, though long, were strong, her tall frame compact with smooth muscle and fat that spoke to the vigor and health of youth.

 _“I should be grateful_ ,” she thought, thinking back to her childhood as a Dres slave, and how “vigor” and “health” were alien words, then, and redoubled her efforts to polish her master’s cuirass until she could see her face in it.

“A-h!” she hissed, dropping the rag and clutching at her hand - like all her kind, Setrass had short, but sharp claws; she’d become so preoccupied with her work that she’d forgotten how tightly she gripped the cloth, and in the haze of memories, had pierced not only through the cloth, but into her own palm, four droplets of red blood beading into thin rivulets that ran down her hand. Almost as though to answer her exclamation, the flap to the armory tent swished open behind her and a pair of heavy boots stumbled in. She quickly turned to look, but she of course already knew who it was - her master, General Docero Shalksbane of the Skyfire Company, Scourge of Morrowind; or, at least, so he called himself.

Docero was a perfect example of why the facade of ultimate elegance, grace, and intellect Altmer society put on was a farce: he could not be described as tall without also being described as gangly, nor powerful without awkward, nor cunning without dull; Docero was a walking - or in this case drunkenly stumbling - contradiction of elven values, possessing at the surface level all the qualities admired by the Altmer, but to extremes that made them flaws only compounded by the fact that he had all the magical aptitude of a large rock. A thick aroma of brandy and pipeweed followed the mercenary captain into the tent, the smell clinging to his tunic and the straps of the steel greaves he hadn't bothered to doff prior to the post-battle festivities. His face - all long, awkward angles that trapped him somewhere between boy and man - rested in the relaxed smile of inebriation, and his stumbling was not aided by the fact that the hand that didn't rest on the hilt of his dagger was occupied carrying a half empty bottle of expensive liquor.

“Setrass! Many-Horns! Horny Ass!” He called with the glee of an impetuous child, too drunk or high at first to notice that the target of his lewd nicknaming was sat right before him cleaning his own armor. His eyes settled on her before she could respond, and a strange feeling settled in Setrass’ breast when she saw the dullard's lust in his eyes soften to some approximation of concern when he saw the blood running down her arm towards the sleeve of her dress. He frowned, seemingly equally as confused by the spectacle as he was concerned.

“You're bleeding, my dear.”

“Yes, my Lord.”

“... Did you… cut yourself, my dear?”

“... Yes, my Lord. That is how I would be bleeding, my Lord,” Setrass' offered, hoping her explanation was helpful. Docero frowned, approaching slowly to where she sat with the awkward swagger of bravado tempered by concern.

“Are you hurt terribly?” he asks as he reaches her, head down turned to address her since her own didn't even reach his hips. She shook her head, and he smiled, the hand drifting from his dagger to cup her cheek. She leaned into his hand - the familiar warmth felt good on her skin. “Then you will polish my greaves, 'my sweet’,” he said, the quote making his intentions very clear, “and perhaps after my good spear.”

“Yes, my Lord,” Setrass sighed as she lifted her head from his palm and took up her cleaning rag to begin with Docero's boots and work her way up like she always did when they played this little game. Docero murmured contentedly, leaning back on his heels and pushing his hips forward as she worked, drinking a deep draught from his bottle. Halfway through the drink, he started as though remembering something, his deep grunt calling Setrass’ attention away from her work. Docero pulled the bottle away from his lips with a heavy sigh.

“Your dress, my sweet,” he said as though the statement were self explanatory.

“... Yes, my Lord? What about it?”

“The blood - it trickles slowly, and your lovely skin heals - urp - quickly, but it will stain your sleeves.” Setrass' nodded, lowering the cloth and peering up at her master.

“Shall I ban-”

“Remove it,” he ordered, and for a moment his voice took on the tone he used to order the Skyfire Company in the field of battle, embodied of a strength that made Setrass’ spine shiver, her stomach knot, and her face heat. She nodded, silently undid the sash about her waist, and obediently pulled the upper half of her two piece dress off over her head. Docero watched intently as the fabric peeled up from her belly, as her heavy breasts spilled from the garment to rest on the strong muscle that wrapped her ribcage and her dark nipples stiffened in the cool evening air, as the collar of the blouse pulled away and revealed the musculature of her slim neck and how it slowed down into her shoulders.

 _“I should be grateful,”_ she couldn't help but think, _“that the General has chosen me to be his favorite, and his alone.”_ Docero smiled again - a tender, soft smile so unlike his commanding presence just moments prior, a smile that, strangely, almost disappointed Setrass - though she would never show it.

“Much better,” he said, and gestured for her to get back to work. Setrass' could feel his eyes on her as she polished his boots, then his greaves, and finally the plate chausses he wore on his thighs. She could feel the slow trickle of blood working it's way down her arm, see it reflected in the armor she rendered gleaming with a rag and some oil. When only one piece of armor remained to clean, she folded her arms and looked up to Docero, her eyes locking with his, unafraid.

“There remains but one piece to clean, my Lord,” she said, feigning innocence; they'd done this song and dance before, she knew exactly how it would unfold - the absurdity of the role was worth the energy of what came next. Docero's grin split his face ear to ear, and he nodded.

“Yes, my sweet,” he began, but before Setrass could go about her business, he continued. “But first, drink this,” he said, and offered her the bottle, still nearly half full. She stared at it, the Amber fluid within glowing in the light of the lanterns that kept the tent lit - she'd drank before, of course, but nothing of this quality.

“... The whole thing, my Lord?”

“Yes, my sweet, the whole thing, as you say - for vigor and fortitude in your task.”

“But won't that make me clu-” she could not finish her sentence, because as she opened her mouth to say the last word, Docero placed the lip of the bottle on her tongue and upturned it, pouring the contents into her mouth.

“I said to drink this,” he repeated, and this time he spoke with authority, with power - the sort of strength that quickened Setrass’ heart, the sort of strength that was the one thing she genuinely respected and that Docero so rarely had. She drank the liquor greedily, a trickle splashing down her chin and across her breast as the rest burned it's way down her throat and set her mind abuzz with it's sweet perfume.

 _“I should be grateful,”_ she thought in the back of her brain, _“that I have the opportunity to taste Cyrodiil brandy.”_

Docero pulled the bottle harshly away as the final drop drained down Setrass’ throat, and she sucked in a gasping breath, coughing and blinking and wiping moisture from her nose to gain her bearings from the potent drink. Her Lord nodded his approval, casually tossing the bottle aside. “Very good, my sweet - you may proceed.” Clumsily, she grasped for the cloth - as Docero had promised, the drink had filled her with vigor and fortitude, and the fogging potency of the drink had in turn eroded her inhibitions and her patience. To call Setrass “proper” would be a misnomer even on a good day; she was submissive enough for her station, of course, but only just, and even among the incomparably cruel Dres had had a reputation as a spirited troublemaker; filled with a quantity of brandy only made tolerable by her natural resistance to toxins, a more apt descriptor for her would be “wild”. She went about her work with a haste and ferocity that surprised Docero, pressing the cloth into and vigorously burnishing his codpiece without even bothering to clean the spilled brandy from her neck and breast, chest heaving with the deep breaths of lust and intoxication. Docero groaned his approval, resting his hand atop her head, and she could feel his erection shift the small metal plate that concealed it beneath her dutiful hands.

“Yes, my sweet, very good, very good indeed,” he murmured, and she looked up to him as he pressed her head to the bulge in his pants, her fingers plucking at the laces to his codpiece, hastily removing the ties as it was all she could do to not simply sever the thin cords. She could smell him through his pants, smell what little animal Docero had in him. It was almost a pity he was an Altmer, she thought, for with a different upbringing, he might have made a very good Dres.  
“I should be grateful,” she reminded herself, “that he isn't.”

“Now for the spear, my Lord?” She asked, though it was hardly audible through Docero's thick leather breeches pressed against her mouth. He nodded.

“Yes, my sweet. Now for the spear.” By the time he finished his sentence, Setrass had already removed his codpiece and was finishing unlacing his belt from its buckle, letting it hang from his pants as she tugged the front open to allow his erect cock to spring free of its confines. Like everything about Docero, it was large and awkward, too fat in the middle and too thin at the base, and with a pronounced curve to it that made it, despite its size, look more absurd than intimidating - which, given its owner, was fitting enough. It slapped against her face as it sprang out, bronze tip already slick as Setrass wrapped a hand around it and slowly began to stroke, working a gob of Docero’s pre into her palm as she used one hand to rub his penis and the other to pry his pants away from his groin to reveal his golden skin, white pubic hair, and full scrotum. With his pants out of the way, Setrass was free to suckle at the base of his cock while she continued to slide her hand up and down its length, matching the tug of her lips and her teeth with the play of her fingers over his tip at the zenith of each drag. She could feel his hand tense against her head, pressing her face into his crotch and her nostrils against his skin so that her breath whistled against his body. Ordinarily, Setrass would keep this up for long minutes, or even over an hour, taking her time to tease him and please him, to relish the power she had in this moment, but with the brandy in her blood she was impatient, and so as Docero’s fingers played with her horns, her tongue snaked out of her mouth far earlier than it should. Docero’s drunken mind scarcely had time to register that something was off before Setrass looped her tongue around his balls, ducked her head beneath him, and took them into her mouth all in one motion, suckling heavily on his scrotum and briskly increasing the pace of her hand. He gasped, doubling over as she pulled hard and fast on him with her hand and her mouth, both of his hands now coming to lace behind her head and press her into him so she could hardly breathe as his legs began to shake. “A-ah… my sweet… Setrass, my..!” he exclaimed - Setrass answered with her tongue snaking to his ass and her fingers slipped between his head and his foreskin.

Docero cried out - embarrassingly, her name - and she felt the hot bounty of her efforts spatter against her head, neck and back. His nails dug into her scalp, and Setrass murmured muffled, breathless groans into his flesh while he held her there, finally unable to resist the urge to shove her other hand between her legs and rub the fabric of her skirt into her own moistening loins. It took Docero a few moments to register his slave’s quiet squeaks and moans, only realizing something might be remiss when she let go of his cock and thumped her fist against his armored thigh.  
Setrass reeled back as he released her, his balls sucking out of her mouth with a wet slurp as she fell backwards into a heap, panting heavily, her face wet with saliva. She grinned up at him, his cock still twitching, and shuffled backwards on her butt, open legs clearly revealing the damp spot on her skirt. It took Docero another few moments to catch his own breath, but when he did, his giddy smile morphed into a reflection of Setrass’ own hungry grin - they were, after all, far from done.

“My my, my sweet,” he said as he lurched towards Setrass, voice heavy with lust and hands fumbling to remove his belt, “look at the mess you’ve made of your skirts! That simply will not do, that will not do at all.” Setrass crept backwards, matching his pace, forcing him to come to her.

“Forgive me, my Lord, for I am but a poor Argonian maid, and wont to dirty myself in my duties,” she hissed in response, voice dripping with innuendo and sarcasm. She felt her back run up against one of the sturdy square posts that supported the armory tent, and Docero grinned, belt in his hands and cock erect and ready once more.

“Well then, my sweet,” he said, eyes narrowing and voice husky, “let me help you with that.”

She giggled as he pounced on her, and now the fun could begin. She kissed him deeply as they rolled about in the tent, wrestling for control. He was strong, and so was she, and here, they both could prove that. Docero wrapped his arms around her torso and flexed his abdomen, flipping her onto her back as he wormed his hips between her legs and smashed his face to hers, briefly pinning her beneath him as she squirmed helplessly beneath, but when he ducked a hand to open her skirts, her own shot out and grabbed his wrist, and with a swift roll, she flipped the two of them over and pinned his wrists to the ground in the tent, face flying from his as she landed atop him, her vagina firmly rubbing against his shaft. Her cheeks were flush as she sat straddling Docero’s waist, face split in a toothy grin as she rubbed her sex cruelly against his cock, breasts hanging tantalizingly close to his face.

“Well, my Lord,” she asked playfully, relishing his groans and his futile attempts to regain control, “art thou prepared to make your little maid scream?” They shared a strained laugh - he was hardly a Lord, as much as he hated to admit it, and she was hardly little, as many were keen to point out.

“But if you scream, my sweet,” he grunted, grinning back up at her and lunging his face forward in a failed attempt to nip her nipple, “my goodly reputation will be ruined! And after you’ve worked so hard so keep it spotless,” he said teasingly, bringing to mind all the times they’d done this charade before ever since she was old enough to catch his eye.

“Then you must force me to be silent, my Lord,” she hissed, tongue flicking out to grace his nose as she dragged her pussy slowly up his length all the way to his tip to tease him, daring him to do something, to once again prove her the winner in this arena by use of his belt or his blade, “for I am but a humble Argonian maid and I know not of proper beha-”

Docero turned her words into a blissful scream as he suddenly thrust his cock deep into her pussy when its folds graced his tip, and during her moment of distraction, he ceded the match. Her grip on his wrists faltered with the rapturous intrusion, and as Docero flipped her over again and hooked her legs over his shoulders, his belt looped around her neck and his dagger flashed from his sheath and he gained and held the high ground. Setrass’ back hit the ground hard, and with a push of his body forcing her hips away from the soil, a sharp tug of his hand to pull the belt taut about her neck, and a quick flash of steel as he pressed his dagger gently to the soft scaly skin of her throat, Docero robbed Setrass of both her control and her breath, turning her keens and cries into lusty, strangled hisses. His eyes gleamed in the flickering light, his gaze trapped in hers: despite his position, his cock pressed deep in her flesh, his blade against her throat and his belt around her neck, despite that he could easily kill her here and now, her eyes remained locked fiercely with his, no less piercing and no less commanding for her ragged breaths, muddied face and breasts, or soiled skirts. She hooked her feet behind him, and pressed him into her body.

Setrass heard the leather creak against her neck, felt the cold steel crushing her windpipe and biting into her scales and Docero’s cock twitch deep inside her, but more importantly she saw his face, saw his desperate attempts to convince himself that he was still in control and not her. He was funny, she thought as she dragged in a ragged gulp of oxygen - even when giving he could so easily take her life, he found it so difficult to be commanding when it really, truly mattered - certainly, during the role play that preceded the festivities he could command authority, even truly command her and her fiery heart with a firm voice and a steady hand, but here, he was concerned - she could see it plainly on his face, even when she could hardly think straight. As she pulled him in, he slipped, and the belt tightened a notch, eliciting a strangled squeal from her restricted throat - the shift of his eyes was obvious as his lips drew close to hers.

“Are you alright?” he whispered, and she knew he held no power over her.

 _“I should be grateful,”_ she thought, _“to have a lover so delicate even in false violence.”_

“Fuck me, my foolish Lord,” she hissed back into his lips between choked coughs.

Docero complied.

Setrass’ mind drifted betwixt rapture and bliss as Docero plowed into her, giving up on any attempt to kiss him back as he mashed his face against hers and thrust his loins deep into her body. She had, again, gotten what she wanted, and now was content to limply, effortlessly ride the waves of Docero’s vigor. And yet… the brandy crept back into her mind, and when her thoughts crossed the halfway point between ecstasy and joy, they drifted somewhere darker.

 _“I should be grateful,”_ she thought, _“so why am I not?”_

So far as masters go, Docero was a stroke of divine luck - he left her mostly to herself so long as she tended to her chores, was gone for long periods of time, kept her well clothed, well fed, and well watered, and even brought her little gifts from the battlefield to engage her hobbies. He hadn’t noticed her as anything more than a servant until some days past the 18th anniversary of her hatching, and when he finally approached her some weeks later, it was not with a command but with a request - all in all, he was so… gentle.

And yet that was the problem, wasn’t it? He’d proven time and time again that, without weapons, she was the stronger of the pair, and his gentleness with her when she disobeyed orders, was slow to perform, or refused him proved that he was no stronger than she in character either. She thought back to her time with the Dres between strangled yelps of pleasure, the faces of the dead left to rot in the fields as clear in her mind as the sheet-draped corpses plucked from the battlefield and prepared for burial in the Skyfire Company’s infirmary. “I should be grateful,” she thought, but for what? That her master was both kind and weak? That though he was weak, he still had the audacity to call himself her master rather than her partner?  
That even though their time together was shared equally pleasantly for both parties, he still referred to her as being beneath him in anything more than the most literal sense?

The train of thought was hard to maintain, but the alcohol both inspired it and ate away at her inhibitions, both trained and innate. Docero was sweet, but he was weak - there was no reason he should be her better, by the Three there was no reason he should hold command. She was stronger than he was, she knew it. She was stronger…

And if she was stronger…

Docero cried out and Setrass cried out as one as they came together, the elf pulling his face away from her and arching his back as an explosion of ecstacy overtook him and he filled her belly with his seed.

Setrass, in a moment of perfect clarity of desire and with no hesitations in her mind, wrested his dagger from her neck and plunged it deep into his throat.


End file.
